


sound, substantial flesh and blood

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [8]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mage Underground (Dragon Age), Plot, Reluctant Revolutionary Fenris, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Early summer, 9:37 DragonFenris arrives with Anders in Starkhaven, where some of Anders' old allies have gathered to discuss the future of the Mage Underground. In meeting these would-be revolutionaries, Fenris has a few revelations about himself.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59





	sound, substantial flesh and blood

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing to see here but plot, folks! There's some of that sweet fenders content, obviously, but this is really just me setting up some dominoes to push over later.

“Have I told you today what an _impossibly stupid idea_ this is?” Fenris mutters, pulling the scarf more firmly over his mouth and nose.

Anders, looking straight ahead with his hood pulled low over his face, responds, “You didn’t have to come.”

“Since I want you to survive this in one piece, I did.” Fenris stretches a little, shifting the unfamiliar feeling of the rusty longsword on his hip. Oh, how he misses the comforting weight of his greatsword strapped to his back. Not to speak of his gauntlets! All of that has been left in a safe drop, distinctive equipment hidden for them to pick up when they leave Starkhaven again.

Fenris looks up at the walls of Starkhaven rising before them and wishes for the thousandth time that he had managed to talk Anders out of this hare-brained scheme.

There are guards watching the gates, of course, but they don’t take any notice of a pair of ragged travelers, especially when one is apparently blind and using a quarterstaff to guide himself and the other carries the most useless sword in all of history. It’s a ridiculous disguise, but it works. They pass without comment into the city.

In the interest of not getting spotted by anyone who would report them to Starkhaven’s prince, Fenris wears clothes that cover all his skin save his eyes. He still sticks out a bit, but a less so than he would going about with lyrium brands flashing in the sun. Anders is doing a remarkable job of looking the part of a blind man. Together, they find no impediment traveling through Starkhaven.

At another time, Fenris would have liked to have seen the city as a proper visitor. The upper tiers of the city, even at this distance, practically glow with gold and marble, set with green gardens like emeralds, as decadent as Minrathous. Here in the lowest tier of the city, things are simpler, but no less grand. The pillars and fountains are polished granite, rather than marble; the gold is mere painted leaf, rather than a true gold. Still, after years in the austerity of Kirkwall, Fenris is impressed.

Of course, they don’t stay in the pleasanter parts of the city. Anders’ business is in the slums of Starkhaven, down near the wharves where goods from the Minanter River are unloaded into the city’s warehouses. Fenris keeps a sharp eye out for trouble, but it seems that Starkhaven’s prince has put an iron fist over the city.

“Sebastian knows how to keep order, I’ll give the bastard that,” Anders mutters as they pass by a square where a public hanging has clearly only just taken place.

Fenris scowls at the sight, stomach lurching a little. Perhaps Starkhaven resembles Minrathous in more than decoration. “I’m sure he wishes to avoid a repeat of Kirkwall.”

Anders pauses and looks up toward the upper tiers of the city. “They burned the Circle here, six years ago,” he says. “Moved half the surviving mages to Kirkwall and scattered the rest to the winds.”

“Quite the disaster,” Fenris says, following Anders’ gaze, though he can’t see the ruins of the Circle from here.

“Officially, no one knows what caused the fire,” Anders says. He turns away and begins walking again. “I met a few mages from Starkhaven. If you ask _them,_ there were too many unhappy mages here saying too many bad things, and the Templars decided not to wait on the Divine to do what they saw fit.”

Fenris doesn't quite know what to say to that. “How much further to your tavern, mage?”

“Should be down near the docks. It’s called the Blight Dog,” Anders says. “I’m told they have a mabari skull hung up for a sign. We'll know it when we see it.”

“You choose the most _refined_ places for your meetings.”

There is indeed a mabari skull hung up for a sign over the Blight Dog’s door, and it is _exactly_ as disreputable as Fenris expected, tucked away in a dilapidated corner of Starkhaven’s slums. Judging by the stains on the floor as they enter, this place has seen its fair share of violence. Judging by the weapons in evidence on the proprietor, the Starkhaven guards have no presence in the tavern.

A motley crew sits at a table far from the door. Five people, all as heavily covered as Anders and Fenris. One of them beckons Anders as he comes in, and Fenris follows him across the dim, smoky tavern.

“Good to see you again,” one of the men, pale, with a scar slashed across the side of his face, says in a low voice as Anders sits, clasping his hand briefly. “I brought as many as I could find.”

Fenris looks around. The whole group looks tired, nervous, and more than a little angry. Besides the scarred man, there’s a statuesque woman of plainly Antivan descent, a slender man with dark skin and close-cropped curly hair, an elf who stares at Anders warily, and a pale woman. Something about her catches Fenris’ attention and he looks at her again.

The edge of a Chantry sunburst peers above the edge of her blouse.

“What are you doing here?” he growls, cutting through the conversation Anders has struck up with the scarred man.

“Cornelia is safe,” the Antivan woman says sharply. “She is sympathetic to our cause.”

“We can trust her,” Anders says, laying a hand on Fenris’ arm. “She helped plenty of mages once they got out of Kirkwall.”

“I think introductions are in order, before we have any more misunderstandings,” the scarred man cuts in with a charming smile.

Fenris sits back and folds his arms, listening to the introductions. The scarred man is Charles Howe, once of Starkhaven Circle, who escaped during the Circle’s burning. The Antivan woman is his wife, Elena, an apostate formerly from Rialto Circle. The dark-skinned man is Rhodes, who Anders had apparently helped flee the Gallows, only to come back and join the Mage Underground again. The elf’s name is Arhel, formerly of Ostwick Circle; when Fenris asks, out of curiosity, Arhel affirms that he can’t be tracked because his phylactery was smashed by a woman turned Tranquil for her actions.

“She’s with us now,” Fenris says, thinking of Alina.

“And still just as much of a fighter,” Anders adds in.

“Good,” Arhel says. “I’m glad to know you have someone competent with you.”

The Chantry sister prefers to go by Cornelia. A soft-spoken woman, she has a steely look in her eyes and doesn’t seem remotely nervous. “I work with the Mage Underground because I believe my mother was a mage,” she says. “I grew up in a Chantry orphanage and was always favored by one of the Templars there, but I was closely watched, and encouraged to go right into service when I came of age.”

“The pieces make sense,” Rhodes says, folding his hands on the table. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Cornelia is already a Chantry message-carrier,” Anders says. “She’s been carrying _our_ messages too, when she can.”

“It’s my honor,” Cornelia says.

“All that said,” Charles says, leaning forward, “we couldn’t find any more willing to come.”

Elena snorts. “What apostate would willingly come to _Starkhaven_?”

“You,” Fenris says, gesturing at her. “I like you. You have sense.”

Rhodes chuckles. “Ah, I’m pretty sure that Prince Vael up in his high tower won’t expect a meeting of apostates right under his nose.”

“Exactly,” Anders says. He shrugs. “I’m still unsurprised that you couldn’t get anyone else here. It’s a dangerous time.”

Arhel shakes his head. “It’s not just the danger,” he says. Fenris can’t read the look on his face as he watches Anders. “There are very mixed feelings about what you did in Kirkwall. Many mages are afraid of worse treatment in retaliation.”

“ _Just_ as many approve that someone finally acted,” Elena says, turning to glare at Arhel.

“Something had to be done,” Cornelia says.

“You could have _been_ in that Chantry,” Arhel points out.

She looks terrifyingly serene. “If I had been, I would have expected Anders to set off the explosion anyway. A message had to be sent that the Chantry could not ignore.”

Fenris stares at her. “Fasta vass, do you _want_ to be a martyr?”

“No,” Cornelia says. Her voice takes on a flinty note. “Even Andraste herself didn’t wish to burn. Still, I must be willing to die for the cause.”

Beside Fenris, Anders shifts a little. Fenris thinks of ash raining down, of a pool of blood on the street, and reflexively reaches out to take Anders’ hand on the bench between them. “The talk of a madwoman,” he mutters, as dismissively as he can manage, and looks away.

Anders squeezes his hand. “Ignore him,” he says to the group. “He’s displeased that I dragged him to Starkhaven for this. I want to know what we’ve got. Resources, people—you know.”

“Why?” Rhodes asks. “Kirkwall is destroyed. The Gallows are _gone_.”

“And we all know that nothing has improved,” Anders says. “We’ve all seen it. I admit that I have encouraged the Templars to be crueler than ever, and even if it was necessary, we _still_ must help mages get to safety. I want to reestablish the Mage Underground with intent not just to get mages out of the Gallows, but to get them away from the Chantry entirely.”

Charles sucks in a breath between his teeth. “That’s a tall order.”

Elena drums her fingers on the tabletop, lips pursed. “It can’t happen all at once,” she says. “We’ll need to mobilize lots of people that we don’t have yet.”

“We’ll need safe houses,” Rhodes says. “Abandoned buildings, camps. Sympathetic people willing to put an apostate up in their attic or barn for a night or two.”

“Who’ll need to be willing to _lie_ to Templars if necessary,” Arhel says.

“I remember plenty of names and I’m willing to bet that they’d be up to do it again,” Charles says. “The difficulty will be finding people farther away from Kirkwall.”

Anders nods. “We’ll have to work our way outward,” he says. “From what’s left of the Underground around Kirkwall and out into the rest of the Free Marches. Perhaps even to Orlais and Ferelden, if we can manage that.”

Elena sighs. “I can go back to Antiva,” she says. “It’s dangerous to be an apostate there, since the Templars might just hire Crows to track you down and kill you, but the Crows have also been paid off sometimes to provide protection for escapees from the Circle in Rialto. The people I knew might still be in business, if I’m lucky.”

“I have other messengers,” Cornelia says. “Many unwitting, but I can recruit them again.”

“Fenris and I have the safest place for the high-risk apostates,” Anders says. “We have an established camp in a quiet place with no Templar presence. And we have Fenris, who is quite the guarantee of safety.”

Charles leans forward. “What if we found somewhere else safe?” he asks eagerly. “I’ve heard plenty of stories about Tevinter. Mages are respected there, protected by law. Perhaps—”

Fenris slams his fist down on the table with a bang. Charles nearly falls off the bench, Elena lurches backwards, and Arhel lifts a hand as if to cast a spell, though Rhodes grabs him before he can. Fenris ignores it all. “If you send your lost sheep to Tevinter, they will _not_ survive,” he says. “Mages can be slaves as easily as anyone else. Your mages are not from the old families. They are not citizens of the Imperium. They are Circle mages from a Chantry that opposes all of Tevinter. If they live, which is no guarantee, they will be brought to heel by the magisters. It will be a worse life than the one they left, I promise you that.”

“But—” Elena starts to protest.

“Fenris _came_ from Tevinter,” Anders says tersely. His hand, still in Fenris’, tightens. “He knows. Our operation stops at the borders of the Imperium. There’s no more to be said about it.”

For a moment, silence descends on the table. The men at the bar are chanting something, not quite a drinking song, but one that seems to go along with a great deal of ale-guzzling nonetheless. No one is paying this corner any notice. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, the overpowering scent of tobacco making Fenris’ nose itch.

“Then let’s get to real planning,” Anders says at last. He leans forward, letting go of Fenris’ hand. “I want to know what each of us can offer. What our goals truly are. Where we go from here.”

Fenris sits back and listens, letting conversation wash over him. He has little to contribute—he had not participated in the Mage Underground in Kirkwall, and his escape from Tevinter was done without aid. These people know what they’re about. If Fenris wants to help, his best chance is to listen to what they say and understand how he can fit into their plans.

They talk of bribes for nobles, officials, and Templars. They discuss codes and signals, though in veiled terms, and Fenris is sure that each will have their own set when they depart. Rhodes talks of safe houses, the names of those people sympathetic to the cause, and their locations. Elena knows routes by land and sea, the times of guard changes and locations of safe passage, and the ideal seasons of travel. Arhel has a list of names of those trustworthy mages who can spread word within the Circles; meanwhile, Cornelia knows the names of sympathetic Chantry brothers and sisters who might be willing to turn a blind eye. Charles wants to travel, past Nevarra to the Anderfels and south into Orlais, to expand their reach. Anders knows the names of members of the Fraternities of the College of Enchanters who might be sympathetic and can write to them, asking for their support.

All in all, Fenris has to admit it’s impressive.

He’d never given much thought to the _work_ Anders had put in, running the Mage Underground in Kirkwall, or the leadership it had taken. Of course Anders hadn’t been entirely alone, but the weight of it all was on _his_ shoulders. If he failed, the whole enterprise would collapse.

They say farewell to the others and leave by ones and two, slipping out of the Blight Dog as unnoticed as they’d come. The setting sun has already sunk below Starkhaven’s wall, leaving this lowest tier of the city in shadow. No one pays any mind to Fenris buying the last scraps of currant-studded bread from a baker, or to Anders quietly procuring them a few hard-boiled eggs each from a weary-looking street vendor about to go home for the night.

“Starkhaven is famous for its fish pie, but _no_ , you just _have_ to be picky,” Anders mutters. “We could have had some of that famous carp, straight from the Minanter this very day!”

Fenris sighs. “Kaffas, mage…I do not care how fresh a fish is. It’s all the same to me: _vile_.”

They make their way out the postern gate of Starkhaven, unnoticed among a few other travelers on their way to outlying communities. Now that they’re outside the city, they find a place to camp for the night out of sight of the road. It’s lucky that summer in this part of the country is warm, and that they have a habit of sleeping close already.

Beyond the walls of the city, there’s just enough light still to see by while they eat. “I understand you a little better now,” Fenris says, around a bite of bread.

“Oh?” Anders looks up from meticulously peeling an egg.

In the setting sunlight, his already-sharp profile is rendered stark in shadows and red-gold light, his hair set on fire. Despite the egg, Anders looks stunning. Fenris forgets for a moment what he meant to say. “I mean…I understand what you did in Kirkwall,” he says. “The Mage Underground. Why you were so tired and distracted. I knew, I think, but always…in the abstract.”

Anders looks down, picking small pieces of shell free and flicking them away thoughtlessly. “I never wanted to burden anyone else.” He pauses. “If I’m going to be honest, I never _trusted_ anyone else.”

“Rightly so,” Fenris says softly. “We gave you very little reason to trust us.”

“I’m glad we’re remembering the same Kirkwall,” Anders says. He takes a bite of egg, though it looks mechanical.

“I hope I’ve given you reason to trust me, by now,” Fenris says, after a long pause.

In the last glimmer of sunlight, Fenris sees Anders smile. He tosses aside the end of the eggshell and reaches for a piece of bread. “I trust you with everything.”


End file.
